We All Come Tumbling Down
Disclaimer: I am just a visitor playing in Rowling's Universe. I own nothing.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading – enjoy!
Regret is a funny thing. Sometimes, it just hangs in the back of your mind, nothing more than a mere shadow that you can almost believe doesn't exist. But then, it suddenly grabs your soul in the strangest moments (as you are doing your laundry, for instance, or sitting in the sun on a Monday morning), and its weight paralyzes you.
Today, it is practically crippling. The chill in the air from the now constant presence of the dementors runs through my veins, and my breath comes only in gasps. As I dodge around the ruins of the once vibrant Diagon Alley, I can't help but think of the irony that these buildings will sit empty tonight as so many huddle and hide on the streets. In an instant, the sheer weight of humanity's dual monstrosity and fragility strikes me still. What have we done? What have I done? A foot about to step on my tail forces me from my reverie.
My name is Peter Pettigrew, and I've lost all faith.